late had been patrolling almost to the very walls had withdrawn, and the land to the north was uneasily quiet, scouting parties reporting it utterly deserted by man and beast. What this tense hush presaged no one could say, but the wall sentries had been doubled on the orders of the King himself.
The gates of Torunn were closed, and Andruw and his men had to cajole and threaten for fully a quarter of an hour in the pouring rain before the guards would admit them to the city. Their horses clopped noisily through the gloom of the barbican with the gore of the North More battle still upon them, ten riders looking like warriors out of some primitive bloodstained myth.
The haptman of the gatehouse accosted them on the street below the walls, demanding to know their names and their errand. Andruw fixed him with a weary eye. “I bear dispatches for the High Command. Where do they meet these days?”
“The west wing of the palace,” the haptman said. “Whose command are you with? I’ve never seen your like. That’s Merduk armour your men wear.”
“Very observant of you. I’m with Colonel Corfe Cear-Inaf’s command. He’s a day’s march behind me with seven thousand men, two thousand of them Fimbrians.”
The haptman’s face lit up. “Is Martellus with him? Has he got through?”
“Martellus is dead, so is the Fimbrian marshal. The greater part of their armies lie slain up on the North More. Now are you satisfied?”
The officious haptman nodded, horrified. He stepped aside to let the sombre cavalcade pass.
Andruw was kept waiting half an hour in an antechamber despite the urgency of his errand. His normally sunny outlook was soured by grief and exhaustion. The North More had been a victory of sorts, he knew—Corfe had saved part of an army from destruction and was bringing it to the capital. But the rest, including men Andruw had served with along the Searil River, friends and comrades, had been wiped out. And he could not get out of his mind the vision of the Fimbrian pike phalanx advancing to its doom. It was the most admirable and terrible thing he had ever seen.
At last the door opened and he was admitted to the council room. A score of tall beeswax candles burned in sconces, and there was a trio of lit braziers glowing along one wall. A long table dominated the chamber. It was piled with maps and papers, quills and inkwells. At one end sat King Lofantyr in a fur cloak, his chin resting on one ring-glittering hand. A dozen other men were present also, some sitting, others standing, all in the resplendent finery of the Torunnan court. They looked up as Andruw entered, and he saw the distaste on more than one face as they took in his squalid condition. He bowed, the mud-stained dispatch Corfe had dashed off with a saddle for a desk clenched in one fist.
“Your Majesty, sirs, Haptman Andruw Cear-Adurhal, bearing dispatches from Colonel Corfe Cear-Inaf.”
Andruw distinctly heard someone say “Who?” as he laid the dispatch before his monarch and retreated, bowing again. A series of chuckles rustled through the gathering.
“Is it true Martellus is dead?” Lofantyr said suddenly, quelling the buzz of talk that had arisen. He made no move to read the crumpled scroll.
“Yes, sire. We came too late. He and the Fimbrians were already heavily engaged.”
“Fimbrians!” a voice barked. Andruw recognized the broad form of Colonel Menin, now a general, and the commander of Torunn’s garrison.
“On whose orders did Colonel Cear-Inaf take his command north?” Lofantyr demanded querulously. Andruw blinked, shifting his feet.
“Why, on yours, sire. I saw the Royal seal myself.”
Lofantyr’s face twisted. He whispered something which might have been “
“No, sire. We received no such orders, but we did move out before dawn. Your courier must have missed us.” God almighty, Andruw thought.
“And you arrived too late to save Martellus and his men, you say,” Menin accused Andruw.
“We saved some five thousands, sir. They will be here in one, perhaps two days.”
“Why were you late, Haptman? Was not this mission deserving of some urgency?”
Andruw flushed, remembering the breakneck forced marches, the bone-numbing weariness of men and horses, tribesmen tumbling asleep from their saddles.
“No one could have gone any faster, General. We did our best. And”—his voice rose, and he looked Menin in the eye—“We were only thirteen hundreds, at the end of the day. Had Corfe been given more men, he might have saved the whole damned army, and Martellus might yet be alive to serve his country!”
“By God’s blood, you insolent puppy!” General Menin raged. “Do you know who you are talking to, sir? Do you know?”
“Enough,” the King said sharply. “Bickering amongst ourselves will lead us nowhere. I am sure that the full facts of this disaster will become known in time. Haptman, what in God’s name are you wearing? And how do you come to present yourself before this council in such a state of filth? Have you no inkling of respect for your superiors?”
Andruw’s blood was up, but he bit on his tongue to silence himself. He saw the drift of things. They needed a scapegoat, someone to off-load the burden of their own incompetence and cowardice upon. Corfe had not saved part of an army, he had lost the rest. They would twist the facts to suit themselves. Lord God, he thought. They would wrangle at the very gates of hell.
“My apologies, sire. I thought my news warranted great haste. I am come straight from the field.”
“Ay, but whose field, I wonder?” a voice said mockingly.
Andruw turned to see the dapper form of Colonel Aras. He bowed, very slightly. “Sir. I am happy to see you well after your . . . endeavours, in the south of the kingdom.”
“I’m sure you are, Haptman. I brought thirty of your wounded savages north with me when I had finished thrashing the rebels there. Your commander really should take better care of his men. I’m sure I shall.”
Andruw stared at him, and something in his eye made Aras cough and bury his nose in a wine goblet.
After that he was ignored, left to stand there in his bloody armour as the council debated the news he had brought. No one dismissed him, and he seemed to have been forgotten. His hauberk pressed down on his shoulders. The heat of the chamber seemed stifling after the chill air out of doors, and his head began to swim. Someone nudged him and he gave a start just as his knees had begun to buckle.
“Here, drink this, Haptman,” a voice said, and a glass of dark liquid was pressed into his hand. He gulped it down, feeling the good wine warm his innards. His benefactor was a young officer in the blue of the artillery. He looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps they had been at gunnery school together. His mind was too fogged to remember.
“Come into a corner. They won’t miss you.”
He followed the officer to the far corner of the spacious chamber, and there set down his helm, unbuckled his sword baldric and with the other soldier’s help levered off his breast and back plates. Feeling more nearly human, he accepted another glass. By this time there was a group of four or five other officers clustered about him, and the droning voices at the council table went on and on over their shoulders.
“What was it like?” the artilleryman asked him. “The battle, I mean. The city’s been running with talk for days. They say you slew twenty thousand Merduks up there.”
“This Corfe—what manner of man is he?” another asked.
“They say he is John Mogen come again,” a third said in a low voice.
Andruw rubbed his eyes. He had never really sat back and considered Corfe before, the kind of man he was, the things he had done. But he saw something in the eyes of these young officers, something which startled him. It was a kind of awe, a reflected glory. At a time when all hope for the future was being ground down into the winter mud, and the once-great Torunnan military was decimated, cowering behind walls, this one man had raised an army out of thin air and with it had fought to a standstill the invincible Merduk horde.
“He’s a man like any other,” Andruw said at last. “The greatest friend I have.”
“By God, I’d give my right arm to serve under him,” one of the young men said earnestly. “He’s the only officer we have who’s
“They say he’s the Queen Dowager’s bedmate,” another said.
“
